To Each His Own
by goodboykiba
Summary: "But, initially, he wanted to be a pirate." Brotherly Mycroft babysitting an incorrigible pirate-detective-in-training and his best friend, Redbeard. T for later mentions of drug use and horrible abbreviation of Mycroft's name. No pairings.


"I'm bored," a short, stroppy voice- one he was not unaccustomed to, but was quickly tiring of-insisted from a space somewhere around his elbow. Eyes would have rolled had they not been fixed upon the fourth line of his dog-eared page, determined not to lose his place yet _again_. Sociology textbooks were dreary at best the first time around, and it was only sheer resolution and two cups of sweetened, creamed tea that kept Mycroft reading at such a time in the evening.

A task which was certainly not made easier by the hindrance that was his nine-year-old brother and his energetic and barely-restrained field spaniel, both of them bursting at the seams with a boundless energy that Mycroft resented at his practically ancient seventeen.

"Sherlock, please, I'm trying to read." If ever a comment escaped from the eldest Holmes child's lips in a _growl_, it was this one. Youngest child took no heed, of course- what had he expected, honestly- and chose only to shove aside a short pile of texts- Mycroft's "To Read" pile- and clung to the arm of the dated chair he had chosen as his place to study.

"You're always _reading_. It's so dull. Redbeard and I want to play, Mike." While taught the value of proper pronunciation and blessed with a higher vocabulary than most children his age, Sherlock still failed terribly at any form of diplomacy. He should have asked nicely- or not at all, that would have been preferable.

"Mycroft," he corrected automatically- Mike was the name of a football player, a commoner, pedestrian- he was no such thing. "And you have a play room full of toys and books, some bought only at Christmas- surely you've not yet outgrown them?" He re-read the fourth line, cursed inwardly, and took the break in concentration to covertly observe the child who had flopped to the floor dramatically. Sherlock's dark brown curls bounced and scattered over his scalp haphazardly at the action, and blue eyes glared up at him with a level of resentment hardly deserved. He averted his gaze after a moment, leaving his younger brother to sulk as he tried to find his place in the text once more. The dog keened and flopped to the carpeted library floor, jolting Mycroft to remember.

"Sherlock, honestly. The dog needs to remain outdoors. That was the agreement," but he couldn't muster up an entire argument at present, mind desperately straggling to catch the drifting threads of what the textbook was trying to get him to comprehend.

"But.. _Mike,_" His brother was wheedling now, the shortened version of his name employed on purpose, and Mycroft steeled himself against a reaction. "Mummy said that you're _babysitting_ me_-" _There was the condescension, as though Sherlock thought his parents ridiculous for holding the notion that he needed _babysitting_. Which, of course, he did- "And you don't want to get into all sorts of trouble if I get hurt, do you? Mummy would be mad." A sickeningly sweet smile, as though he had Mycroft in some proverbial Check.

"Ah, but nothing would happen to you, dear brother, because then you may not be able to check on your growing mildew cultures in the back garden tomorrow." One never threatened Sherlock directly- they threatened his access to his 'experiments'. _ Not checkmate, unfortunately, little brother._

Scowling in annoyance, Sherlock kicked the chair, and Mycroft dropped the book at the jolt- and opened his mouth to scold his brother for the display, but the child was already storming out of the room, utterly disappointed in the lack of help and muttering as much to his canine companion.

With a sigh, Mycroft chose to take the silent opportunity and read up to the sixteenth line of the page- twice, because it occurred to him later that what he was supposed to be learning had not sunk in at all. The seventeenth approached, fine-printed lettering that begged to be read and understood- but he was no longer paying attention, if in fact he had been doing so at all. Sighing crossly, he admitted defeat- no more of his text would be read that night. The house, while large, was very rarely silent, and the fact that it now _was_ left Mycroft utterly curious as to what trouble Sherlock could possibly be getting himself into.

Scuff marks could have been leading _into _the library, but the footprints were facing the wrong way- Mycroft took a moment to mentally worry over what Mummy would say about Sherlock wearing shoes on the carpet, dismissing the thought for more pressing matters- and quite clearly led to the kitchen. An area expressly off-limits to Sherlock after the Great Corn-Starch Incident of '84. Nevertheless, the clear evidence didn't lie- Sherlock had clearly been inside, had run to the fridge- ah yes, there were the canine's prints beside. Something smudged into the cool white tiles? Something-

He did not need to be the world's best detective to know that that was the last slice of the 12" Black Forest cake with chocolate icing that Mycroft had been saving for a post-study/pre-bedtime snack.

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes, the kitchen, _now_."

Two minutes and thirty-seven seconds- Sherlock must have been in his playroom, either that or in his favourite hiding place that he thought Mycroft didn't know about. What Mycroft really didn't know about was how the child managed to climb up the disused chimney in the first place.. but that was for another time. Feet trampled uncoordinatedly across the floor, still clad in sneakers,but that wasn't the article of clothing that caught the eldest Holmes' attention upon entrance.

A red square of material, one he didn't recognize, had been folded over and tied as a kerchief over Sherlock's mussed tresses, few strands peeking out from under the fabric. Mycroft barely had time to note that the dog also bore a similar scrap of fabric, this one slung around the spaniel's neck to keep it attached, before an old cardboard roll was brandished in his direction, narrowly missing his crooked nose.

"Arrrgh!" Sherlock bellowed, "Ahoy!"

Mycroft may have allowed himself a crack of a smile had the situation not been so deadly serious, remaining straight-faced as the bandana slipped over bright eyes. The flushed child pushed it up hurriedly, looked to the dog, bolstered his courage and poked his older brother on the cheek with the cardboard roll. "How dare you shrug in the face of my sword, scum?"

Committing himself a note for later to question Sherlock on where he'd picked up such uncouth language, Mycroft stared down at his sibling, commenting dryly, "I am still not playing. I am very cross with you."

"With me?" The culprit did not even have the decency to confess his guilt at the accusation, but instead clambered up onto a drawn chair and return to eye-height with his teenaged brother. "Why, I'd never. Why do you- I mean, ye- why do ye come t' a pirate for help?"

It seemed Sherlock would insist on playing, and Mycroft resisted the urge to lock him in his bedroom until their parents came home. It was only because the technique had failed in the past that he refrained, though. "I'm not speaking to a pirate, I am speaking to Sherlock Holmes, the person who ate the slice of cake that I had been saving."

Sherlock, rather than appear contrite, leaned forwards, slipped his headscarf off his mass of curls, and whispered conspiratorially, "Play along. Redbeard doesn't know that yet, and we want to play pirates." Tugging the fabric back onto his head lopsidedly, he grinned. "So, detective Holmes, why do you need our help? Surely a great detective like you could find the culprit!" _Red Beard_, the addressed dog, looked on with interest, words washing straight over that shaggy auburn coat without sinking in at all. Of course, they wouldn't. Sherlock was talking to a _dog_.

"I _can_ find the culprit," was all the seventeen-year-old had to offer, before Sherlock jumped down from his chair and tugged on Mycroft's jumper excitedly. "Come on, boy, let's go look for clues! We can help this detective, and then go back to our ship with all of the gold he'll pay us for our help!" This he said to the dog, who wagged it's matted tail in excitement at being spoken to. Sherlock seemed to take that as agreement, and whooped happily, leading the dog over to the spot on the kitchen floor where the cake crumbs had been mushed against the tiles. Resigned- Sherlock wasn't going to go to sleep until he did this now- Mycroft followed.

_Red Beard_ snuffled at the crumbs on the floor, to a chorus of praise from the nine-year old who had flopped to the ground beside him. "Look, Mike! He found a clue! Good boy, Redbeard!"

"Mycroft," the eldest responded, but it was a lost cause- the cake crumbs were already gone, and the entourage was already heading into the next room. It wasn't taking long to find the clues- a suspiciously short amount of time for someone who wasn't the culprit.

"Come on, hurry up," And Sherlock's sweaty palm was sliding into his own, dragging him along- apparently he wasn't walking quickly enough, heading into the lounge where the canine was already following the trail of breadcrumbs like they were intended to be.

"Look, you're meant to be the detective, and we're doing the job for you! If you were a pirate, I'd make you walk the plank, lazy! How can you be so lazy when there's a case to solve?!" Sherlock insisted, poking his older brother once more in the knees with his makeshift weapon.

The teen rolled his eyes. "I told you, I already know who did it," but it went ignored, Sherlock running off after the dog, and Mycroft bringing up the rear because, well, what else was he going to do?

Half an hour had continued and the youngest Holmes boy was finally showing signs of tiring, and Mycroft was tired of being told to 'walk the plank'. Hell, he would if he could, if it meant this game would end. Sherlock was sitting on the floor, _Red Beard_ curled next to his thigh, and looking up at his sibling.

"So it was the Baroness of Pirateville Bay," the boy was saying, and he got no points for originality of location names, but it was better than nothing.

"No, little brother," Mycroft sighed. "It was the little boy who was up way past his bedtime and wanted his older brother's attention, and who also happened to like Black Forest and chocolate-iced cake, and who was utterly _bored_." Sherlock opened his mouth in protest, and until many years later, Mycroft could still say that not a sound in the world had relieved him more than the sound of their parent's car pulling up to the drive had on that day.

* * *

Until now, that was.

Until now, after all of the drifting apart that they had done, after the loss of Red Beard, after Sherlock had given up on his dreams of piracy and open seas for _consulting detective_ work in London- after receiving regular messages on the state of Sherlock's health after each almost-overdose because there was no way he would be able to help, and seeing his brother in such a state would only make it worse…

No. The best sound in the world was his brother, laughing- more than twenty years gone by after the pirate-games and cake-theft and staying up late to bother Mycroft. His own brother, wrapped in a world of criminal intent and danger, a world of murder and dark schemes, finding an opportunity to laugh, being seen giggling at the edge of a crime-scene with Doctor John H. Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. It wasn't up to Mycroft to entertain him forever, no. That could be the purpose of the retired army doctor now. He could put up with missing cake, and experiments all over the house and dead body pieces in the fridge. Sherlock could continue his addiction to humanity, to studying and knowing about what made humans work and why they- with the exception of but a few- were so _dull._ And Mycroft could go back to his vice of reading and eating cake in the late hours of the night.

To each his own, after all.


End file.
